Congregation of light

 The Congregation of light 

Were the day not pressing me on

The assembling light line I’d have joined

Light lifted me, light lifted me

When nothing else could help

Light lifted me

State of being

The young men shall dwell in their own world

The old ladies shall sleep on in this world

 

Bob White

 Bob White

John Clare Stokes

November mornings I hear the bob white

whistling in the kitchen and know 

that soon the cane syrup

will be hopping by the noon light,

the amber sweetness compared to Berts

down in the woods of Mt Beasor, 

out from Sopchoppy, 

with Mrs Cora teaching Clara the art of

fluffy biscuits for the Methodist preacher,

with a little help from Mary Rudd above,

while little Jumpy climbs high the pummy 

pile to claim king of the mountain,

only to be cast down by Robert his best friend

to muster the strength to climb again,

as over the green stamp plates grace is said,

the syrup poured reverently over the hot biscuit,

and later in the night while awake in his bed,

the little boy quietly whistles for bob white,

knowing he will soon answer in the cold

starry November Wakulla night.

Do good

 Do good 

Not everyday do you have opportunities to do good. Oh, you can cut out the F bomb words, empty the trash, replenish the files, compliment someone who their bosses never do, do those not my job things, so today, I helped an invasive tree frog unable to hop for all the webs he got tangled in last night. He stuck around awhile watching me, then was able to hop off. He could not help being invasive. Oh, I emptied the trash too. 

A stoked registered.

Light line

 On the light line 

There is a certain jocular nature to nature. You spend thousands in glass and gear, in hopes of bringing nature near, and in the end, you use the iPhone for your dancing. It figures.

I heard

 Toward sundown yesterday I heard a few Sandhill. It was the first I heard this year. This is a photo illustration.

I look within

 

Hydrangea home

 Hydrangea home

Where the hydrangea bloom

Was once my bunked bed room

Where now are columns tall

Was a fence with zinnias sprawling

Then an open field small

Where my uncle and I tossed balls

Across the street loomed Hughes

With the organ with pipes huge 

In the late night a student practicing 

My little room with Bach reverberating

Asbury was a place dear to us

The duplex with the like family beside us

Fitting that the hydrangea marks our place

Their blooms upon our memory trace.

Osiana

 Osiana Kemp

john clare 

All that remained on

The terrible Twenty-sixth

April of twenty-three

Were the roses that

Spread in the shade

Of the pitch pine porch

The delicate pink petals

Sought for the weddings

And altar displays up at

Hopewell, placed there

Lovingly by Ola and Osiana

Scorched now from the

Intense flames

No wedding bouquet for her

Dreams of crossing oceans

Far from Benton gone

The flames in the spilling 

Of the kerosene lantern

Taking her away.

She came in May of O Nine, 

She held on til the first day

Of May, twenty three

With a spray of pink roses

For Osiana.

The Shining Congregation

Hopewell Baptist

Extreme Northern Columbia Co.

Some members, noted little Osiana Kemp, upper left, burned to death in a house fire trimming the lantern.

These things

 Quest

The sitting by the river

The waiting

The bobbing

The nibble

The disappearing cork

These things thrilled me

The pulling in

The fish out of water

The unhooking

The thrill waned

The slime upon hands

The scaling

The gutting

The head cutting

The gasping for water

These things I wonder why

I stopped fishing 

The walking in the woods

The smell of morning

The feel of shells

The warmth of wool

The quiet sitting

The daydreaming

The rustling

The click off safety

The slow aiming

The game falling

The blood upon hands

The gutting

The skinning

The flies gathering

These things I wonder why

I stopped hunting

The long shower

The combing hair

The jade east cologne

The paisley tie

The matching socks

The nervous stammer

The fear to reach

The first clasp of hands

The dream of kiss

These things thrilled me

These things I wonder why

I miss them so.  

Mary Brown

 Mary Brown

Misses Cindy Brown

You have a lovely mother

If I weren't so taken

I'd ask Mary Brown

For her arthritic hand

For you see

Mary is Ninety six

And she dances

She keeps candy

She was friends with

Jacqueline Kennedy 

She has this charm

This twinkle in the eye

I think a year or more

With your lovely mother

Would be Camelot.

Dreams Of Elijah

 Dreams of Elijah

John Clare Stokes

Elijah desperately wants a girlfriend

No one will have him

Too set in his ways

No sign of easy to love money

Mostly he plays gin rummy

Tries to get a run from the same suit

He lets them win

It keeps them sitting longer

Eventually the game ends

Elijah bends over the black walker

Raspy voice barely discernible 

He once had a girl

But it came to an end

When she revealed her matching pair 

He keeps the photograph

As a reminder

Never to play cards again

With Queens wild.